going for gold

It seems about this time last summer, the buzz everywhere was about Michael Phelps. A person couldn't take three breaths without hearing about him on the news or seeing his picture in the paper or watching him promote his latest product on TV or print ads. For the rest of the year, you couldn't walk down the cereal aisle, buy a phone, eat a sandwich or wipe your ass without seeing his face on the product. The man was all over the place.

And, let's face it, the guy deserved it. He won 8 gold medals in the Beijing Olympics (does anyone else feel a little cross-eyed when they read the word Beijing?). He holds 8 world records in swimming. On top of that, he as a career total (so far) of 14 gold medals. Oh, and he's only like 24 years old. In the world of swimming, I'm sure that's "pretty up there," but to the rest of the world, he's just now teething. He's a baby.

He received all this noterary because he accomplished amazing things.... well, I'm sure the perfect swimmer's build didn't hurt either. But, overall, the world took notice of Michael Phelps because of the 8 gold medals around his neck. He will go down in history for his amazing achievements in athletics and will forever be connected to the amount of gold he won.

Now, quick: name an amazing athlete who gained historical significance for being an Olympic silver medalist.

I'll wait....

Oh, I'm sorry. Times up. You see... you couldn't. I'm sure tons of famous gold medalist lept to mind. Even my unsportsman-like mind can rattle off names like Mary Lou Retton, Carl Lewis, and Bruce Jenner (okay, maybe I know that last one because he's the step dad on "Keeping Up with the Kardashians," but still...). No one remembers those who don't win the gold.

Silver medalists aren't on the tips of every one's tongues, they aren't the answer to sports bar trivia games, they aren't on Wheatie's boxes. Their song is never played. Silver medalists are forgotten.

Why? Because they came in second.

The summer before I was in ninth grade, I took a short hiatus from my mega, 7 year crush on Missy Hogberg and was ga-ga over Danielle Mosser. Danielle Mosser was an adorable girl a year behind me in my church youth group. Her family went to another church, but she started coming to the youth events for First Baptist because we had the best youth group in town (and we weren't afraid to let people know it). Seemingly out of no where, she came into my life, and I knew that she was the answer to my problems, the cure to the annoyingly consistent rejection I was receiving from Missy. "Missy may not like me," I thought, "but certainly Danielle will. This one is it."

I started going to all the church's summer youth events. Every week, I went to Monday Night Live, our night to go mow some old person's lawn and then go swimming. I'd be sure to wear my Simpson's T-shirt while I swam to show off my funny side. I tried to do crazy things to impress her like go through the Dairy Queen drive thru on my dirt bike and place an order. I thought she had the prettiest big hazel eyes and sweetest dark freckles across her tanned face. I was certain we'd be cutest couple since Dave and Maddie on Moonlighting, without the soft lens.

We used to have long conversations on the phone about nothing for hours and hours. During those, she would sweetly tell me, "If Brandon wasn't my boyfriend, we'd be boyfriend/girlfriend."

It was true. The one barrier was her boyfriend: Brandon Lott... who, now that I think about it, was probably the main reason she started coming to our church's youth group to begin with. Brandon, also a year behind me, was the church organist's son. His older sister, Deborah Lott, had a wild streak, and there were signs that wild streak continued into Brandon. Still, with his charming demeanor, good looks and gymnast in training build, you couldn't help but love him.

And, Danielle did love him... well, as much as an eighth grade girl can love an eighth grade boy. And, she was honest and told me that -- if anything should happen to Brandon where he could not fulfill his responsibilities as her boyfriend, I was there in second place. I was the runner up.

Somehow, I was fine with that. I mean, it wasn't like I was second to Mickey McBain, the kid so nerdy that even I had daydreams of stuffing him in his locker. No... being second to Brandon was pretty alright. It was like someone telling me I was almost as good looking as Michael J. Fox or I sort of resembled Kirk Cameron, but shorter and not as cute. Being second to Brandon Lott was nothing to sneeze at.

That's where it started. That's when leftovers became a nice meal. That's when hand-me downs became brand new clothes. That's when standing on the second box became acceptable. That's when being 'good enough' became enough, for me at least.

Now, 21 summers later, I'm making some changes. Through countless experiences of being second-- both those from years ago and those of last month, I'm deciding second place is no longer good enough for me. I no longer want to take a back seat to someone's career. I don't want to be someone's secret. I don't want to be someone's last fling. I no longer want to be a "side dish." I've been the chopped broccoli long enough. I want to be the main course.

I'm not saying others put me in my permanent second place. I allowed people to treat me in ways that have kept me here. And, truth be known, it's not like there aren't advantages to being where I've been. It allows for fun with minimal cost. But, you can only swim in the shallow end for so long before you get bored. I willingly stepped onto the second box. There's no one else to blame for this but me. I made myself the professional silver medalist that I am.

Thankfully, I've seen glimpses -- in other people's lives -- of what I want. Of how people should be treated. Of how good it can be. Of what genuine, true love looks like. And, that's what I want. I want that. Since what I've been doing since 9th grade hasn't seemed to produce much beyond unrequited crushes, it's time to change my strategy a bit.

Starting now, I want to swim into deeper waters. I want to be the first choice. I want to stand on the tallest point. I want to hear my song played. And, I'm no longer settling for less. I'm going for gold.

burn differently

I would not have made a good caveman.

I’ve been without power in my house for 3 hours now, and I’m about to go crazy. I’m not talking stir crazy… I’m talking freaking bonkers.

In the time I’ve had no electricity, I’ve had a bowl of cereals, conducted a long conversation with a friend on the phone, tried to start writing a play about a guy in a blackout, took a nap, made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and started this blog entry.

Oh… and in between all those events, I’ve entertained myself by conducting votive candle races.
Of my three small votive candles, I’m seeing if I can get them to end at the same time by blowing one out if it gets too far ahead of the other two. I’m utterly confused how three votive candles that I started burning at the exact same time in the same candle holder are so unbalanced from each other. The middle one is much lower and closer to being done than the two on the ends. Also, the one on the far right has burned in a very level with just a smooth pool of wax at the top. The other two have a sunken center with high wax walls curling in on top. The candle on the far left keeps going out because the wick gets overtaken by the puddle of melted wax.

It’s not like I ever burn them separately or play favorites. It’s not like they burn in a different room with different conditions. And, I wouldn’t imagine that the wax in one candle is any different or more apt to burn quicker or smoother than the other candle. Still, even though they are in the same holder in the same room and burn at the same time, they each burn differently.

I’m starting to give up hope that the power is coming back on before it is time for me to go to bed. This scratches my plans to catch up on ironing tonight. This also closes the chapter that the load of laundry I needed to get done tonight will remain dirty. And, it probably means that before I go to bed, I’ll spend a little more time looking at the candles and noticing and appreciating the uniqueness of the flames.

power hungry

The only time I really like to write is when I'm out and about... not like when I'm shopping at the mall or working out. It's not like I'll be powering up my laptop in between my bicep curls. But, still, I find the environment most conducive to writing creatively is usually at a Starbucks. When I'm home, there are oddly too many distractions. Most would think that being in public with other people and noise and sites and sounds that the distractions may prevent me from being productive, but I find the opposite to be true.

When I'm home, there are so many other things that can prevent me from doing something I might really need to do. Clean the litter box, mop the floors, take out the trash, fold laundry, iron shirts, sleep... all these things will keep me from doing anything remotely productive like writing. The oddest part is that I hate doing almost all those things; but when I'm home, I feel practically obligated to do at least one or a few of those chores. Since the cat doesn't lift a paw to clean up after herself, I turn into freaking Alice (without the Bunch) when I'm at the house. That's why on the days lately when I 'work from home,' I'm working from Starbucks.'

One draw back from only feeling inspired to write when I'm at a Starbucks is that unless I'm near a power outlet, the writing becomes a timed event. This afternoon is a prime example. Choosing a much too crowded Starbucks to plant myself, I had to take the only table available.

I don't mind it being in the center of the Starbucks; after all, this helps fill some flawed need I have to be the center of attention and continue my dillusion that the world revolves around me. Plus, I get to witness pretty much everything going around me... like, from here, I can see the guy who has been waiting on the restroom for about 5 minutes... which means the person IN the restroom has been in there for 5 minutes... which means the guy waiting probably doesn't want to go in there any time soon.

From my current vantage point, I also can pick up the odor the guy that smells like a dog. I can hear the guys next to me debating the virtues of Dallas. I can see the guy across from me is reading the Lisa Jackson novel "Wicked Green" (it looks stupid-- and quite honestly, so does he a little bit).

But, most of all, I see where there are available outlets and how each one of them is blocked by people NOT using or needing them. There are the Turkish guys with their med school books at one table near a wall outlet. Yes, they need the larger table, but not the plug. Still, they are spread out and appear as though they'll be planted there for a while (even if they are only splitting a tall coffee).

Then, behind me is a couple of guys who looked like they met online and chose this Starbucks to meet in person and see if they hit it off. From the body language it seems like a match. Goody for them. I'm sure they'll tell their adopted grandchildren all about this day.

The only other outlet in the place is actually being used by some guy on his laptop. I'll forgive him for using the plug. I will not forgive him for that shirt he's wearing.

So, here I sit, in the middle of everything but completely cut off at the same time. No energy source. No power. As I see the battery measurement slowly but surely decrease, I know my time is limited. So, instead of crafting a well-written piece with substance and depth or humor or style, I'm just going to go do what any gay man does when he can't get what he wants. He goes shopping.

pancakes

I wrote this a month and a half ago... I didn't publish it at the time simply because the mood was WAY to somber on my blog. But, I haven't posted much this month, and since I'm buried in writing mortgage industry stuff for a while, I'm afraid I'll lose any regulars I might have (especially the one in Germany), so, here's what I was feeling a month and a half ago... and a little yesterday...

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I had pancakes for brunch.

If you know me, if you know my regular eating habits, if you know my standard Sunday routine, you know that this is a cry for help.

Last night was horrible. Not in 'the end of the world' kind of way, but in the kind of way when a truth hits me... a truth I knew all along. A truth I knew would eventually reveal itself, but for some reason, I thought I had more time before it did-- at least, I hoped I did. It would have been more time of delaying the inevitable, of kidding myself, but I'm involved in theatre, and so I'm comfortable in a world of pretend; often times, I prefer it. Sadly, the reality we live in rarely is a choice, and apparently, the warning is right: the objects in the mirror are closer than they appear.

The details are irrelevant. I fell for someone I shouldn't. I want something I can't have. It's not the first time, and more than likely, it unfortunately won't be the last time. But, it's been a while since it's happened, and so I'm out of practice. I forgot how it felt. I forgot how to fix it.

Some people are great at dealing with disappointments of the heart. They shake them off. They go for a run. They go out with friends. Me? I wallow. I try not to for too long. I try not to around people. But, I do... I fill up a bathtub of pity and sit in it until my fingers get as wrinkled as raisins. Others easily judge this approach, but for me, it's the only way to attempt to heal or move on. Feel it as deeply as possible and explore all its darkness so I know the areas that need the light the most. Then, I have to throw it all up somehow-- either with phone calls to friends or on my blog. Then, at the end, I hopefully feel a little lighter and a little better, having named the pain, having voiced the pain-- not letting it smother me as much as it feels it does now.

Eating pancakes at brunch is my Sunday morning version of drowning my sorrows in wine -- which I thoroughly did last night. A good penot noir, “Under the Tuscan Sun” and quite a few tears. Wrinkly fingers, wrinkly toes.

When I woke up this morning, though, I hadn’t slept the heartache off as I had hoped. I saw it before my eyes opened. Getting out of bed is never my favorite part of the day but shadowed by an unwelcoming truth, it takes more strength than I can sometimes muster... like working out in the morning.

And, while someday, this despair, this heartache, may channel itself into something productive like exercising or doing chores to keep my mind off of it, today, the only way to deal with it today, this morning, was with pancakes. So, prying myself from bed (and pretty much knowing the side of bed I rose on today was inconsequential), I dressed without showering (again, a day when personal hygiene seemed like an unnecessary luxury) and made my way to my Sunday diner.

The pancakes arrived to my table hot and fluffy, with nice cups of butter and syrup on the side. Still caring enough not to OD, I sparingly spread the butter and syrup over my plate. I would only drizzle the syrup of the section of the pancakes I was about to eat. I’m not entirely sure why I took this approach. I didn’t use less syrup by doing this. I think, in my head, I was taking a more healthy approach though. I’ve watched enough “The Biggest Loser” to know that syrup is bad for you… rots your teeth, too much sugar, gets you chunky and so on. By giving myself a little at a time, I guess I thought I was being better to my body.

Kidding myself is my unconscious hobby.

What hurts so much this time around is that I should have known better. I have no one else to blame. It's like I saw the person sneaking up behind me with the intent to frighten me, and when they yelled "BOO!" I still was scared shitless, screamed bloody murder and jumped out of my skin. There was no question my heart was destined to be where it is today; I saw it coming from the start. So, why against all my better judgment did I let myself get this deep into it? I can’t play the inexperience or ignorance card. I can only look in the mirror and point the finger—and ultimately believe the heart will go where it wants.

I flashed back to a week before when I was joined at my regular brunch by the family of a friend of mine from college. Her sweet 4-year old daughter had ordered pancakes—for a completely different motivation. She thankfully hasn’t learned about comfort food yet. She wasn’t nursing a heartache… it’s simply what she wanted. At 34, I have to do something extraordinary or live through something painful to earn pancakes. At four, you just have to stay in your seat during church.

The rules change. The bar gets raised.

With half a pancake left, she asked her dad for more syrup. He explained that there was none left. They had emptied what was given them on the pancakes at the start of the meal. “You don’t need more syrup. It’s soaked into the pancakes. It’s in there.”

I heard him say those words as I slowly ate my “Pity Party ‘Paincake’ Platter” (which, by the way, comes with a side of bacon). Before I could finish whatever section of pancake I was about to devour, the syrup would already soak in. I couldn’t beat it, and I couldn’t stop it. The pancake and the syrup would be one. The pancake is sweeter, even if you don’t see the syrup on top.

The trickiest part of it all is that I want someone who is pancake worthy. I want someone like this person – someone intelligent, funny, driven, kind and beautiful. Someone that reads me better than people that have known me for years. Someone that I can’t get out of my head; someone that awakens my heart. Someone worthy of drowning my sorrows in pancakes without ever driving me to that point. It’s a risky proposition and a scary thought… and like Big Foot, I’m not sure if such a being exists. And, even if he does, how do I know that a short stack isn’t awaiting me at the end of our time together?

I don’t know. No one knows. There are no guarantees how things will end. But, when they do, if they do, all I know is that I’ve had the experience. I’ve had this experience. It has been poured into my life. And, while right now I feel the rotting, the decay, and the pain it causes, hopefully, ultimately, I somehow will be made a little sweeter by it.

spring awakening

Today, I saw two things that I really needed to see.

The first was random. I personally can't believe I saw it... but I did. My eye couldn't help but catch it.

I was in rehearsal for my current show (shameless plug: "i google myself" at WaterTower Theatre's Out of the Loop Festival... running March 5, 8, 12 & 13!). During the course our tech, I had a lot of down time backstage. At one point when I was waiting for a cue to be brought up, I was standing by the exit door. The play is being produced in a black box theatre, so everything is painted black (and it's a box shaped room, thus the name... which sadly exhausts most of my theatre knowledge). As I stood there, I could see the daylight fighting to break through the black doors that held it back. The biggest gap between the double exit doors was at the bottom. There, where the brightest light was piercing through, I could see green.

Against the black, the color stood out profoundly. In fact, it looked so green that for a minute, i didn't think it was grass. I thought perhaps a green mat was outside the door or maybe the concrete was painted green (I'm not sure why anyone would paint concrete green, but I was just running scenarios through my mind). I bent down to get a closer look through the hole in between the doors. It was. It was grass... green and bright.

As I stood there, waiting for my cue, surrounded by black and darkness, my eyes were attached to the small spot of light and green that I saw.

Then, when I came home, I had to run to the back ally. My damn garbage bin that the city provides doesn't have its back wheels so whenever the slightest breeze comes along, the stupid thing falls over since it's not balanced. Some days I just let it lie there, but if it gets too far into the ally, then I try to set it up right again so my neighbors won't curse me (although, if they did curse me, it would probably be in Spanish and I wouldn't understand them anyway, so it probably wouldn't matter that much.)

When I first moved into my house a year ago, I planted a tree in the backyard. I thought it would be great to have something mark this big start in my life. Plus, I wanted something visual to see the time I spend here; with so few things available to provide a visual representation of our time in this world, I thought it would just be nice to have something I did show growth-- especially when there are so few days I demonstrated it myself.

Being my first time to plant a tree, I was afraid I did something wrong. Maybe the hole wasn't deep enough. Maybe I didn't water it enough. Maybe I should have covered the base of the new tree during this past winter. Maybe I should have fertilized it more often. I mean, that first year, it was looking kin to Charlie Brown's Christmas tree. Then, when winter came, like all other trees, it lost its leaves. My fear was that I had not prepared it enough to survive the cold weather... that when spring arrived, it wouldn't come back. Sometimes, the winter can be so hard that there's no life left for the spring.

Heading out back to pick up the garbage bin, I started in a run. I just came back from a workout so the wife beater and gym shorts that I had on were not quite the clothes I needed to be wearing in the 40 degree weather. I quickly passed the tree, set up the garbage bin and started my jog back, and then I stopped.

Leaves. There on my skinny, Charlie Brownish tree were leaves. Not just one or two but several. Many. Lots. Lots of leaves were beginning to form and bloom on my tree.

It survived the winter. It continued to grow. It was dressing up for spring.

If I had just seen one of those things in one day, I probably wouldn't stop to think about it. But, seeing them both in one day, it made me think. It made me notice. It gave me hope. I too can and will survive whatever winter I face... this one and others -- because there will be more winters, but there will also be more springs.

Today, I am just thankful to be reminded of the spring awakening.

blaming albuquerque

Back in the days when they used to have Saturday morning cartoons, seeing a great Warner Brothers cartoon was common. This was an era before the Saturday morning tween-centered sitcom. There was no "That's So Raven" or "The Suite Life of Zach and Cody." No, old school folks like me had "Alvin and the Chipmunks," "Muppet Babies," and "The Smurfs." And, we liked it... we loved it!

Of course, we also had The Loony Toons on Parade... Tweety Bird, Sylvester, Daffy Duck, Foghorn Leghorn... all of them would march into our televisions on Saturday morning and make us laugh and help us unwind from our week full of book reports, spelling tests and math pop quizes. Usually, I would be seated on the floor with a TV tray, a glass of milk and some fresh chocolate covered donuts that my parents would have brought back for me from their weekly Saturday morning visit to the grocery store.

No Loony Toons would ever have been complete without at least one feature focusing on Bugs Bunny. Some of Bugs Bunny's best stories were the ones that start showing Bugs burrowing under the ground, zigging and zagging through the turain. Then, in an Artic setting, in the midst of a snowstorm, Bugs would pop up from the ground in Bermuda shorts, a surf board and a shade umbrella. Obviously dressed for a tropical location and finding himself in freezing weather, Bugs would pull out his trusty map to retrace his steps and see where he was. This would typically lead our hero to pinpoint the source of his problems... Seeing where he went wrong, he'd say, "I must have taken a wrong turn in Albuquerque."

I look around my life now and objectively, I have it good. I have a job-- which in these economic times is something to be especially thankful for. And, I actually LIKE what I do, so again, nothing to spit at there.

I have a house of my own which also doesn't suck. While, true, I have just the "bare necessities" in terms of furniture, there are more cracks in the walls than I prefer, and I have no idea what to do with the landscaping or decorating, it's a house, and it's mine.

I do a decent amount of theatre work ... and the work I do is decent. I don't get every part or every show I want, and the schedule can really stress me out. But, I'm able to follow my bliss to a degree that keeps me content.

I know some pretty great people that I call friends, and the better part is that most of them call me a friend too. Sure, I can get on their nerves, and a few of them can tap dance on mine. I may ocassionally forget or neglect an important event in their life, and a few of them really suck around my birthday, but overall, I'm surrounded by some good folks.

I have a family that loves me... despite the challenges I've presented them and the distance I've created.

I'm healthy, and I'm glad to have the resources and time to continue to exercise and eat right. Not sure that I'm necessarily buying more time on this planet by doing it, but at least it helps me look in the mirror without throwing up.

And despite all those things, I feel off track. Emotionally, I still feel lost (which, yes, I'm seeing a theme in my writing... No need to go all Dr. Phil on me). It's just some sense of emotional wandering I've had lately. I have lost my emotional footing lately.

Looking back, I know where I went wrong. The wrong turn I took is very clear to me. I see the one I should not have fallen for.

So, while I could stay up the rest of the night, finishing this bottle of wine and blaming Alburquerque, I'm more curious about what to do now that I'm here.

bedtime

You're in bed with me right now...

I'm just laying here in my flannel polka-dot pj pants and an old t-shirt from high school (which is old enough that if it were a person, it could drive) and feeling that my toes really need attention from a sweet Korean woman with a emery board.

I know. Just too sexy for words, right?

Truth be known, I've just been restless the last couple of days, and I'm not sure why. There's just a sense that something is wrong or something is missing. But, I don't know what it is.

In my head, I have a perpetual 9 year old sitting in a small, wooden chair. His hair is perfectly parted to the right and his clothes are freshly ironed as he raises his hand to give a Sunday School answer... "Oooo, oooo! It's Jesus!"

Well, no... As much as I'd like to be able to quickly point out what's missing and tie it all up with an easy answer, I have to say, it isn't Jesus. Despite what others may think, I have Jesus, but I'm still feeling there's a hole somewhere inside, a vacuum of sorts.

But, unlike when I'm doing a puzzle, I'm not sure what piece is missing. The shape is undefined, and whatever picture it is supposed to complete is just blank.

Here in the dark, though, I'm starting to see what it is.

There's a relationship that I'm letting go of, or trying to have the strength to let go of, and it hurts. It's the right thing to do. Every part of me knows that... well, every part of me but my heart. There's no future in it, at least not a future that would make me happy.

I see it happening, I feel the relationship slip away, and while that should give me hope for healing and for new days ahead with a lighter load, I see someone I care about walk away. I'd love to call or send a text tomorrow, to do something that will keep his attention and keep him around a little while longer... but that would be delaying the inevitable. Even in a Leap Year, with one extra day, your birthday still comes; you still get older... you just get to delay it by with February 29.

There's no stopping what time will bring, and time will bring a stop to this relationship.

So, this restlessness I've been feeling lately is probably from weariness... the fatigue brought on by trying to be strong enough not to do what your heart longs to do. It can leave you uneasy, unsettled... tired but not sleepy.

It's not something a warm glass of milk or a lullaby can help. I have no clue what will satisfy this emptiness, but I would love to find it so I could get a good night's rest.

sensory overload

There must be a full moon...

I came to the Starbucks for a low key night... I hadn't necessarily planned on a low key night. I had actually been invited out for drinks with friends, but they cancelled... which, I have to say, I felt wasn't going to happen. Did you ever have one of those invitations that you knew right when it was extended, whatever was proposed just wasn't going to happen? For some reason or another, you just knew the activity was going to fall through? Something in my gut told me that the suggested drinks wouldn't happen. And, my gut was right-- as guts typically are.

But, since I was dressed too cute to not be seen in public, I came to my favorite Starbucks to enjoy a caffinated night cap, write a blog that would neither make me money or change the world and keep myself from celebrating Valentine's Day by staying on the couch and drinking and crying while I watch Love Actually (but, looking at the time, I might be able to have the best of both worlds...).

And, then, "they" entered. THE LOUDEST PEOPLE ON EARTH. I'm sure you can hear them where you are now.

There is a party of 30 or so Spanish speaking people who have gathered by the fireplace of the Starbucks. I'm not sure if this is a birthday party, a wedding reception or a going away party or what, but they have taken over and found my very last nerve. They have not only found it, they have found it, hit it, jumped on it, knocked it down, killed it, gave it mouth to mouth, revived it and beat it to death again.

All I've been able to put together at this point is they are playing some sort of slap game... they are slapping the hands of the person sitting next to them and when that part of the game ends, it turns into something like "truth or dare" or "name that tune" or something. They've sung 3 groups songs and then one girl has done a Spanish opera piece. Three tables next to me have left and the ones that remain merely stayed behind to give them dirty looks... although I think I'm doing the best of it.

I'm all for having fun, enjoying group time and cultural events. But, party games at Starbucks? No. No, no, no, nooooooo. Out of line. There are certain things that are meant for the living room at home... I don't come here, get in my boxers, watch Lost and fart a lot... don't come here and play party games that have 25 people singing the Marcarena.

But, in the long run, it's probably good that they are here... at least for the guy dressed like some character from A Christmas Carol. With a red velvet jacket with gold accented buttons and nickers and tights to match, he's sitting there talking to a goth-girl. The girl who is dressed in black and sporting impressive cleavage and long black gloves doesn't seem to mind that his bushy sideburns grow into and eventually connect with his equally bushy mustache. With the Spanish sing-along going on, no one is noticing Bob Cratchit and Elvira on a date.

I don't even remember what I was originally going to blog about. It's like the space-time continuum has completely gone wacky. A Dickens character flirting with a Goth Girl... La fiesta con musica a mi derecha... and now a straight guy just walked in wearing a sparkly Texas Rangers baseball cap...

I need to go home before the Cat in the Hat walks in. This is too much for me to take.

the weather in paris, part four

Part 4

While I often go through a day thinking that I can do anything, I have grown to know my limitations. I know I cannot slam dunk a basketball (not that I want to). I know that I cannot hit sing a high B above middle C. I know that I cannot dance well enough to raise money for a cup of coffee, much less to make a living off of. And, I know that I cannot tan. I should have learned the first time tried at the age of 13 when I covered myself with baby oil to layout with my sister. The following week when I looked like a walking Washington State Apple, I should have learned my lesson. But, when I want something badly, it takes me repeated failures before I understand that it may not happen. And, even 20 years after my first failed attempt and the many that followed, I still want to be a person that can tan and refuse to accept my pale complexion will do anything else than burn, peel and freckle.

With my hands on the waistband of my swimsuit, I contemplated the possible outcomes. I could encounter life unencumbered for the very first time. I could feel the breeze. I could feel the freedom. I could experience the beauty of nature as I lay there in my own natural state. I could take it off and frolick nude in the sun for the first time.

Then, I remember while I was sunbathing with an Italian did not mean I *was* an Italian. Recalling that my Swedish and Irish heritage was still fully intact and that all of this "freedom" I would enjoy would eventually lead me to a red hot prison, burning like the fires of hell and tighter than my skin, I decided to keep the swimsuit on.

Although I was sure the free-thinking Frenchman with me would also disregard his swimsuit like a used tissue, he didn't. Whether he was trying to be polite and relate to the conservative American or whether he also did not want to toast his personal Eiffel Tower, he stayed clothed.

I think we read some, I think we talked for a while, I think we listened to music on our headphones. I don't remember much of the day at the beach anymore except a few moments. Lying on cots next to each other, Nicholo would occasionally reach over and stroke my back. Unprovoked and without words, he would just put his hand on my back and leave it there for a while. Time would pass, and I would open my eyes and see that he was laying beside me, just looking at me. He'd make a quirky face to forgo any language barrier, and we would share a smile. Time would pass and he would reach over and gently touch my face, letting his presence and affection be known. That is what I remember of our day at the beach. It was all so perfect still that those touches were the only things that proved to me that this was really happening.

By the end of the day, I was covering myself with a towel. I literally laid under th towel as if it was a blanket. Even though every 30 minutes, I reapplied sunscreen, I was certain I had developed immunity to it and that my cancer-hungry skin was soaking up the Grecian sun like a sponge. Italians can spend 8 hours nude on the beach and just turn a more beautiful shade of tan, but I knew Swedes like me can't take the risk. Thankfully, whether the foreigners I was with were either done or merely taking pity on the white American, we left Super Paradise Beach and headed back to the hotel to clean up and then go do dinner.

After a short time, Nicholo and Jojo appeared at my door, ready to go to a wonderful steak place they knew. Again, my American Eagle zip up sweatshirt/jacket and Gap thermal paled in comparison to the fashions being sported by the Frenchman and Italian. Nicholo wore a beautiful white fitted jacket, opened in the chest just enough to show off his beautiful diamond cross necklace and short (very short) drawstring hounds-tooth shorts.

Jojo took more of a pirate approach. His white linen shirt was pared with black horse-riding pants and knee-high, black laced, white boots. Not feeling the outfit was quite complete, he topped it with a white bandana decorated with black skull-n-crossbones. I guess for an island once attacked by pirates, it was an appropriate ensemble.

As we entered the winding streets, heading to our restaurant, people stared at him and whispered about him as he passed. But Jojo didn't notice. Or if he did, he didn't care. Jojo didn't give a fuck what people thought of him. And, I admired the hell out of him for that. I own hats and glasses that I never wear because I'm afraid what people will say. I should take a page out of the book of Jojo and not care. Why waste my time being concerned about what a person I do not know thinks?
We arrived at the restaurant and as with most places there, sat outside on their patio. Jojo took the lead and ordered a very nice bottle of wine and excellent steaks. Halfway through the course of the dinner, somehow, the mood and the main language changed. I'm not sure what provoked it or what was said, but all I knew was Jojo and Nicholo were having a heated discussion in French. There was some argument going on, but I have no idea what started it or what it involved.

Occasionally, Nicholo would apologize for being rude and speaking only in French. And, while never explaining what the argument entailed, he would merely mention that he was not being smart, he was a foolish dreamer, and Jojo was correct. Days later, I would think about that and try to make sense of it. While originally I did not think the French fight was about me, I wondered later if it was. If it did not involve me, why not just argue in English? Since it was in their language, I wondered if they were trying to keep me clueless… Was it about me after all?

Today, although I do not remember the words they used and still know no French, I like to imagine it was… I like to pretend that Nicholo was trying to think of a way to get me to Paris, to continue these special moments we found, and Jojo, the wise Italian, was explaining all the reasons it would never work. If that was the case, I have to agree that Jojo was right, but I just like to believe that I was not the only one projecting happy endings to this story… that I was not the only one routing for it all.
The bill arrived, and Jojo paid it. Still in a foul mood due to the French debate, he excused himself, and Nicholo and I were on our own again. We wondered the streets together and returned to the bars where we had been the night before. We ran into our German friends again, and we also bumped into a young American we met at the beach who was doing the whole "backpacking across Europe" thing—totally cliché, but still a completely enviable cliché. After conversations with them, we stopped off at the dance club that was having a Greek version of a drag show. While we waited for the show to begin, the owner of the club came over to talk with us… and by "us," I mean he came over to talk with Nicholo.

After introductions were made, he looked at me in my sweatshirt and he looked at Nicholo in his fitted white jacket and asked me in a snotty way, "You are dressed like this," he said to me with a crinkled nose, "and you are dressed so beautifully" he said to Nicholo admiringly. "Are you two together? Are you boyfriends?" he asked in disbelief.

Without a pause, without a moment of hesitation, Nicholo responded, "Yes, we are. He is my two-day boyfriend."

I smiled as the bar owner shrugged and walked away. Nicholo put his head on my shoulder (even though he was clearly taller than me). I put my hand in his hair and kissed him on the forehead.

"Merci," I said.

"We are," he affirmed. "You are my two day boyfriend."

Knowing there was no point in staying out late, and having been worn out by the sun at the beach, we headed back to the hotel… where nothing happened. We went to bed and slept. I guess in terms of a two day relationship, you have to reach the later, no sex stages of a relationship quickly, so the second night is equivalent to eighth year or so. So, like an old married couple, we just went to bed and feel asleep holding each other. Before the moment we nodded off, he looked me in the eyes, and in the thickest French accent possible, he softly said, "I love spending time with my two-day boyfriend."

We were tired, we were boring and it was completely uneventful… and entirely wonderful at the same time.

We woke up the next morning with the sun rising and my checkout looming. The complimentary breakfast was available, and Nicholo invited me to join him for it, but I didn't. My things were scattered around the room, and I needed time to collect my belongings (as well as my thoughts) before my ferry to Athens departed.

We stood there, facing each other. He, dressed in his clothes from our evening out the night before, me in shorts and a t-shirt I found on the floor. It was a moment I wasn't prepared for. Being on vacation, I was not thinking much beyond the next minute, so when the time came to say goodbye, I had nothing prepared. No final remarks, no plan. That is why a moment of awkward silence—the first one for us even with our moderate language barrier – weighed heavily.
We hugged, for a moment. Long enough to make it substantial, but brief enough to keep it from being melodramatic. We kissed, sweetly, slowly and softly. With foreheads together, he whispered, "I will miss my two day boyfriend." I replied, "And I will miss mine."

No numbers were exchanged. No email addresses were traded. No talk or empty promises of keeping in touch were offered. We loved the time, we adored the encounter, but without discussing it, we knew it was our moment… our beautiful moment in the woods.

And, he left. Out the door. Off to breakfast. Off to the world.

My travels continued. I was off to Athens. And, since, I have taken other trips and had other adventures. But, every day, inevitably, I think of Nicholo. An intriguing, French, beautiful man who was interested in me. Me. Just me.

Yes, the "relationship" had a shelf life of two days—shorter than a gallon of milk. Yes, he was not pledging forever. He only had to be "faithful" for 48 hours… Others would make nothing of it—just calling it an extended hook up.

And while I find myself a little more pessimistic every day (something I swore I would never be), I find this different. For whatever reason, I refuse to discard this as just a meaningless encounter. To me, it was more. I think, to both of us, it was more. I felt treasured by someone I could have only dreamed up. It was romantic. It was intoxicating. It was wonderful. Because of location. Because of his beauty. And, even because of its brevity.

Sometimes I dream of going to Paris and finding Jojo's antique store. I walk in, ringing the bell hanging over the door frame. Nicholo rounds the corner. Our eyes lock, and we embrace. Next there is a cut to the credits rolling over shots of me moving boxes into our Paris apartment with the perfect view of the Seines. Some sort of perfect ending to a romantic comedy.

But, then I think it would be too much. The time was amazing. The experience was perfect. Anything else would be too much. It would press our luck.

I left Greece with a shirt, a ring and some gorgeous pictures, but none of those souvenirs compare with the memories of Nicholo, ones that I fondly remember frequently and will treasure the rest of my life. My French two-day boyfriend.

So, that is why I smile when I see a picture of the Eiffel Tower.

That is why I feel comforted when I hear Le Vie En Rose.

And, that is why I always wonder about the weather in Paris.

the end

the weather in paris, part three

Part 3

Just as I was about to pinch myself to see if I was dreaming, I felt Nicholo grab my hand as we walked down the street. As surreal as these moments seemed, I felt him hold my hand, and I knew I wasn't dreaming. It was real.


Shortly after our walk began, we bumped into a group of four German men that Nicholo knew. They were friends and clients of JoJo. They quickly invited us to join them at their destination. After walking a short distance down one of the streets, we found ourselves at a smaller bar which had softer music making it much more conducive to conversation. It was crowded with an older clientele.


One of the Germans we encountered spoke excellent English. He had been in a relationship with an American for almost a decade and walked away with, not only their prize winning Lopso Opso, but also with a polished English dialect that could carry him easily through a conversation with the most American of Americans. His current partner, who as of that evening he had been with for 24 years, was British but spoke impeccable French (at least, I assume it was impeccable… not speaking of lick of French, I could not tell). While his partner and Nicholo said their ourves and sev u plez, I had my first, flowing English conversations with the German.


I was fascinated by his relationship with his partner and how they made it all work. In my experiences, it has been rare to find a gay couple that can celebrate 24 days, much less 24 years. He told me the story of how they met, the bumps they encountered during the stereotypical "seven year itch," and how they overcame them. It was a sweet and encouraging display of love between two men, but this is my story. If he wants to share it with you, he can write his own damn blog.
After a nice time with the Germans (one of the rarest phrases ever used in the world), we said our goodbyes to them, left them there and exited into the curving and purposefully confusing streets of Mykonos. Holding hands, we walked in silence.


Designed to lose pirates, we found ourselves lost in the streets. We knew where we were headed. We knew where we were going, but we took our time as we held hands and walked the winding streets. I could feel the breeze from the water which was not far away. I heard a mixture of the sounds of the surrounding ocean and the music from the various clubs we passed.


We were in no hurry. Our pace was slow. And, then we stopped.


I leaned against the outside wall of a closed shop, and looked at Nicholo. There in front of me was a nice and friendly guy. Even in his limited knowledge of English, he still was funny. He was cultured and traveled. And, as if that weren't enough, his olive skin, his dark hair and his blue eyes captured me. At that moment, looking at him, I couldn't help but smile. (As I sit here, months later, I can't help but still smile.)


That's when Nicholo leaned in and kissed me.


I couldn't tell you the name of the street. I couldn't tell you the time. And, I couldn't tell you the day of the week. But that is the most romantic moment of my life. Against the wall of a shop, in a winding street, on a beautiful night, with waves and music echoing throughout the air, on an island in Greece, I was kissed by a kind, funny, beautiful, French man.


It is a scene taken from a film. It is a moment stolen from a dream. But, it belongs to me. It is mine.


With any perfection, it eventually was interrupted. Moments of utter perfection cannot last too long in one place. It disrupts the universe.


To bring this bliss to an end, our German friends happened to be walking by a few moments after we had begun.


"Oh, now," he said teasingly. "Look what we have here. I thought you two had left to go to the hotel for the evening."


That is why we left, and that is what we did. We left that beautiful moment and returned to the hotel where we made a few more.


The next morning, we leisurely woke up and lazily began our day… the way it is done when someone is on vacation (or the way it is done every day on the island of Mykonos). Knowing the hotel served a light breakfast buffet, we called Jojo and headed to the patio to meet him for a morning meal.


Jojo was there in all his glory. Being an Italian who lives in France (would he be called a Italench? Frenalian?), his style was double European which can catch a Gap-shopping American like me off guard. There, at the breakfast table, sat Jojo, in a black, mesh tank top, black Speedos (with rhinestone trim) and black combat boots. My greatest acting challenge to date was going through the entirety of that breakfast as if his outfit was normal, as if I see someone in that every day.


We decided at breakfast that after quick preparations we would head to Super Paradise Beach.

Now, I grew up in Corpus Christi which is a stone's throw from South Padre Island. I grew up very near a beach. And, although I didn't often go, I knew enough about a beach to think there wasn't anything else to learn. "You seen one, you've seen them all." But, like the time I had too much to drink and thought calling me ex was a good idea, I was completely wrong.

Super Paradise Beach, an all nude, pebble beach, is worlds away from Padre Island.


We jumped into Jojo's rented Jeep and headed to our destination. With dance mixes blaring and the top down, we sped around the roads which had more curves then Marilyn Monroe. On the way, somewhere in the middle of Mykonos, we passed a Starbucks which electrified me with both a feeling of complete comfort and a mild sense of suffocation. Even paradise is not complete without a Starbucks.


Being my first time at a nude beach, I had no idea what to expect. Would it be filled with men who looked as though they stepped out of an Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue? Would there be more six packs here than in the finest trailer parks of Oklahoma? Would there be dance music playing so loudly that it shakes the sand? Would there be young men dancing and waving bright colored flags? Would there be some hidden cove where folks could go to "take a break from sun bathing?" The Jeep that carried us to the beach might as well have been a small prairie house from Kansas spinning in the funnel of a tornado. I knew I was about to land in a different land, full of color, beauty and the queerest things I had ever seen.


"Super Paradise Beach" might be over selling it just a little. I might suggest "Pretty Close to Paradise (Depending On The Day) Beach." We arrived and picked our spots. Before I could even spread out my towel and apply my first layer of sunscreen, Jojo had removed whatever mix of leather, mesh and metal he was wearing and had laid himself bare in his towel. Why I was mildly surprised is still beyond me. If Jojo could have shed his skin, I'm sure he would have. He's the type that even being naked wasn't free enough. He doesn't strike me as a person that likes any restrictions, be them rules of society, clothes or skin. But, with the limitations that humans are given, he chose that moment to be as free as we can physically be.


Now, I don't have to see people naked. Sure, there are a few that I wouldn't mind seeing in their birthday suits, but for the majority of the world's society, I can pass. But, certainly, if someone voluntarily gets nude in front of me, I'm going to at least glance. I usually approach it much like an eclipse. I mean, I don't carry around a shoe box with a hole punched through it, but I will look at the forbidden in brief intervals just to view something I rarely see—although I doubt Jojo being nude in public is a rarity.


All evidence points to the fact that this was not Jojo's first time at a nude beach. There was not a tan line to be found on the man. He was the same color brown from the top of his bald head to the tip of his toes. Probably to make up for the fact that his body was all one color, Jojo strategically accessorized with a few pieces of jewelry. I'm sure this helps certain part of the body stand out and not blend in with others (a danger of full body tanning, I suppose). Both of his nipples boasted rings to remind everyone of their existence. And, I would have been disappointed if he did not have a Prince Albert, but Jojo is certainly not one to disappoint. There, in the tip of his Little Jojo, was a ring big enough to hang house keys from. I could have spent the rest of the day asking him questions about it like, "How do you get through airport security?" and "Do magnet give you an erection?"


Realizing that staring is rude and could potentially get me sick, I turned my attention to settling myself. Once my towel placed, my chair properly positioned and the sunscreen applied, I realized I had a decision to make. Swimsuit or no swim suit?


to be concluded...

the weather in paris, part two

Part 2

When we arrived at the table, a man like none that I have ever met was waiting there. Completely bald but very tan, he wore a cream colored, light knit sweater and cream colored, well-fitted shorts. His feet sported knee-high, dark brown leather boots with cream canvas trim. In each ear, he wore gold hoop earrings that were bigger than rings but smaller than door knockers. He looked at my quizzically but pleasantly when I arrived.

"Hello," he stated. "I am Georgio." He offered his hand to me like a true Southern belle.
Like "Name that Tune," I tried to place the accent in four words, but I was drawing a blank.

"Georgio?" I clarified as I delicately shook his hand.

"Well, yes, Georgio but everyone calls me JoJo."

"I'm Chad."

"Nice to meet you, Chad," JoJo responded.

"Yes, nice to meet you," my friend from the bar said. "I'm Nicholo."

It occurred to me that I had not exchanged names with him. Here I had helped him through international negotiations over a turkey sandwich, and I never discovered his name. International protocol was not my strongest skill apparently.

"How old are you, Chad?" JoJo asked.

Wow, these Europeans get right to the point. But, I guess being the one that wears the dark leather boots with cream canvas trim gives you the right to ask the questions.

"I'm thirty-three," I answered.

"The same age as Jesus when He died," commented Jojo.

They know about Jesus? This is perfect!

In an effort to quickly change the focus, I asked, "How old are y'all?"

I wasn't sure if "y'all" would translate, but old habits die hard. You can take the boy out of his country but you can't take the country out of the boy.

"How old do you think I am?" Jojo not only knew an excllent amount of English, but he also knew games gay men play that apparently are global in nature.

"Oh, no," I said. "I hate to guess age. I'm horrible at it." It's true. I always find those age/weight guessing booths at amusement parks fascinating. Like walking through walls or morphing into different animals, guessing someone's age seems like a super power. Plus, his well-settled tan would throw even the best age-guesser off.

"I am 42," he said confidently.

"Okay, 42. That's great." And, it was believable. Yes, he was completely bald and looked older, but all of the severe tanning he has done make an old looking 42 a viable option.

Nicholo laughed.

"He's not 42?" I asked Nicholo.

"No, he is not 42."

JoJo gave Nicholo a playful slap on the arm and said something playfully scolding in French. "If you must know, I am 56 years old." He contributed this less confidently and slightly offended, making an adjustment to his sweater the same time. Apparently, a gay man's discomfort with growing older is a world-wide phenomenon.

"Fifty-six is great," I offered, although I didn't know what I meant. Was I saying that he looked good for 56? Was I saying I can't wait to be 56? Was I saying 56 years old is the prime of life when the best things happen? I'm not sure what I meant, but I'm pretty sure it was none of those things because I didn't I believe any of them.

"Thank you," JoJo replied with a nod. "How old is Nicholo?" he asked, pointing to his friend.
I looked at Nicholo who had been working on his turkey sandwich while I guessed JoJo's age. Even with his mouth full of his dinner, he still sported dimples when he smiled.

"No, seriously. I'm really bad at guessing age."

"Nicholo turns 24 tomorrow," JoJo said as a proud father as he patted my new friend on the back.
"Tomorrow is your birthday?"

"Oui," Nicholo answered, almost shyly.

"Yes, I brought him here for his birthday," JoJo said. "This trip is his birthday present."

"Well, Happy Birthday," I offered.

"Merci," Nicholo replied with another smile.

"He is 24 but acts like he is 40," Jojo joked.

"Oh, please, no," Nicholo quickly responded. "I am innocent," lifting his shoulders and hands in a shrug with a little pout on his face.

I gave him my one-eyebrow raise. "You're innocent?" I asked suspiciously. "A hot, young gay Frenchman is innocent?"

"Oh yes, I am innocent," he said, nodding like a child trying to convince an adult that he did not leave the Kool-Aid stain on the carpet.

I lowered my eyebrow and my mouth changed into crooked smile I give to someone I am smitten for. I kind of believed him.

The three of us continued to talk for another hour or so. I learned that JoJo was actually from Italy and moved to Paris several years ago. There, he owned a very successful antique dealership. Unlike the "Vote for Nixon" buttons or 1950's school desks I would find in antique stores here in the United States, he dealt with high-end, truly authentic antiques. With a store in Paris (where Nicholo worked) and another location in Cannes, his client base included Christina Aguilera's manager and Sean Connery's wife. It was clear that he was doing pretty well for himself.

Occasionally, JoJo and Nicholo would share an exchange in French. It was never too prolonged and sometimes was just an effort to translate a word from French to English, for my benefit. Finally, after the sun had set and Nicholo had finished his sandwich (of which he gave me a quarter), they spoke of their dinner plans. There seemed to be some negotiations of what they were craved. Finally when a decision had been made (Italian), they were on their way to their room to prepare for the rest of the evening.

"Would you like to join us for dinner?" JoJo invited.

The prospect of continuing the conversation with these strangers, these fascinating foreigners seemed infinitely more appealing than eating somewhere by myself. Plus, Nicholo was gorgeous. Some things don't require a wise voice over to help make the right decision.

"Sure. That'd be great."

And, it was. We separated briefly to prepare ourselves for dinner (but not being a well-versed world traveler, I had not brought different outfits for pre-dinner drinks and then dinner. As they added different accessories or layers to their look, I paced the room wondering how to keep Over Analytical American Chad out of this so that Fly-By-The-Seat-Of-His-Pants Globe Trotting Chad could have a good time. The knock came at my door. My head sharply turned to it. I have a Frenchman picking me up for dinner in Greece. I felt as though I suddenly was in one of those body-changing movies like Freak Friday and some other poor sap was on my couch eating a pint of ice cream while watching "Love Actually" with a cat on his lap.

"Are you ready?" Nicholo said when I answered the door.

READERS' NOTE: Seriously, whenever I write "Nicholo said," you might need to read it out loud in a French accent because I don't know about you but some guy saying to me "Are you ready?" in a French accent solicits the same response as putting a stick of butter in the microwave for a minute… I melt into a pool. Then again, if a guy said to me, "I've got a hairy, acne-covered ass" in a French accent, I still would melt. The French accent is a powerful aphrodisiac—my sexual kryptonite.

"Sure, let's go," I replied, acting as if something like this happens to me every day.

JoJo rented a sports utility vehicle, so the three of us loaded in and headed down to the same area of town I had staked out earlier in the day. The time it took to drive and park was the same as if we had walked, but being that JoJo still wore the canvas, knee-high boots with the dark leather trim, I'm sure the choice to drive was based more on comfort instead of timing… And being that they were European, I believe most of their decisions of life were based on these criteria. Fashion above function at all times. God love 'em.

JoJo selected an Italian food restaurant for dinner that evening. Having an Italian pick an Italian restaurant is quite a process, but by the time we were seated at our table (Nicholo to my right, JoJo across the table from him), I felt as if we were at the best possible restaurant on the island of Mykonos. You have not seen high maintenance until you have encountered a gay Italian, French-antique dealer.

I don't remember much of the dinner or of the conversation.

I remember overalls. Overall, the dinner was great. Overall, the wine was fantastic. Overall, the conversation was incredible and comfortable. But, through the vagueness of the food, the wine and the conversation, a few clear moments still exist.

One involved Nicholo asking me, the token American, what "Sacre Bleu" means.

"You Americans always think we say sacre bleu. 'Oh, no, something bad happened! Sacre bleu!' But we do not say this... It means nothing to us." Then letting his French accent grow thicker and thicker and thicker as if he was imitating another Frenchman, he said, "Sacre bleu! Sacre bleu! Sacre bleu!" Then, back to his normal voice, "Why?"

Not working for the United Nations, I had no answer... plus I was laughing because sounded so much like Lumiere from Beauty and the Beast.

Later, as we waited for our food to arrive, Nicholo again began to assert his innocent nature, claiming he truly was an innocent guy. He then started campaigning for his romantic nature as well. The conversation moved on to other topics. Later, while JoJo spoke in Italian to the manager of the restaurant, Nicholo took the small potted flower arrangement from the middle of the table and placed it in front of me.

"For you," he said. "I got this for you for this evening."

"Look at you," I said. "You are romantic."

"Yes," he replied. "I told you. I am very romantic."

My smitten smile returned.

After dinner, which JoJo paid for, we went to Porta. This was a gay bar like thousands of gay bars around the world – DJ playing the latest dance mixes with men carrying on conversations with their friends while eyeing the rest of the room. If a gay man could work his neck so that it could do a complete 360 degree turn like an owl to scan the room for hot boys, I believe he would. There are some places you could hold a meaningful, eye-to-eye conversation with a gay man; these places include anywhere there is not another man they find remotely attractive in the nearby vacinity. If you want a gay man to focus on what you are saying, have the conversation at a nunnery or a women's prison. Those are your best options.

When we entered, I could see it. I walked behind Nicholo and I could see the heads turn as he passed. He was like a water skier leaving a wake behind him. I've seen this phenomenon before with my very good looking friends. The irony is that most of them are unaware of their affect on the room (which makes them even more attractive). I've got to remember to start walking in front of people like this. It's as if the headliner of a concert goes first; no one stays around to see the opening act.

We stayed for one drink and then headed to our next destination, another bar where more people congregated and danced outside than actual in the bar itself. With the beautiful weather in Greece during June, it made perfect sense. By this point of the evening and this point of my alcohol intake, I had to find a restroom, so I went up to the bar to ask where I could find one. There tending bar was the same Australian lesbian from earlier at the hotel."This is a small island," she said. "You're going to be seeing me a lot."

This is it. I've landed in fairy tale (no pun intended). Somehow, I have a hot French Prince Charming and an Australian lesbian bartender fairy godmother. Not quite the glass slipper tale I had in mind, but I was not about to start complaining.

When I returned from the restroom, Jojo started his goodbyes. "I think I will go back to the hotel now," he said. "I am full and tired. But, I will see you tomorrow." He said a farewell to Nicholo in French, gave us both kisses and hugs and headed to his car. Too often, I still have the unrealistic notion that time freezes in other people's lives when I am not around. Months later, I realized a conversation occurred while I was in the bathroom and this was an intentional move of both of their parts.

With our chaperone now gone, we were on our own. I was on a date… in Greece… with a French man. I had to do a quick inventory. Was I still Chad Peterson? Was this the same boy that sucked his thumb until he was 8? Was I the same boy that grew up in Corpus Christi, Texas, spending all his free time with his church youth group? Was I the same boy who was scared to go away to college? Was this the same life I was leading? Did I skip tracks and jump into someone else's life? Did I fall into some dream sequence? Was this my life?

to be continued...

the weather in paris, part one

Originally posted on my myspace blog, I figured I would repost my weather in paris series both as a February sweeps stunt and as a reminder that there are a few moments in life when I think that Valentine's Day may have a purpose after all.

So, now, sit back and enjoy-- The Weather in Paris.
----------------------------------------------------
I don't get the newspaper.

I mean, I get it. I understand the concept, but I don't have a subscription. I don't think I ever will. It's one of those things of adulthood that I never want to surrender to. As a preteen, I dreaded the day that my armpit hair would come in (had I known how little would appear, I would have told myself not to worry so much). As I grew older, I ferverently looked for apartments which had the washers and dryers furnished because the actual purchase of a washer and dryer is about as youthful and sexy as dress socks. And, any sort of investment of retirement seemed like such a waste of funds.

The day I have a daily subscription to the paper would be like the day Peter Pan moves out of Neverland and buys a house in the 'burbs.

But, when I do run across a paper, I love to check certain sections. I immediately, of course, look for the features/entertainment section, either looking for a review or picture of a production I might be performing in or the latest Hollywood/Broadway news. Then, for some unexplained reason, I check the obituaries. I'm too young to be looking for people I know, although sadly a few have been listed. Instead, I love to read over an obituary, seeing what a person did with his or her life and determining how long they had to do it all in. Who did they leave behind? Where do they want flowers sent? Does it say how they passed? It's fascinating because each obituary is a world in itself.

The last section I typically check is the weather. Naturally, I look over the local forecast as it has a determining factor on what I will wear the next day. Being in Texas, I always hope it shows cooler temperatures so I can break in to my sweater collection. I repeatedly say "Cold weather! Cold weather!" like contestants on game shows say "Big money! Big money!" Rarely do the numbers play in my favor and the rarely worn, fat-hiding sweaters remain in their Container Store bins.

Apart from the local forecast, I also like to take a look at a couple of other area weather reports.
Because I've visited Istanbul three times, I always like to see what the report holds for that city. I don't keep in touch with any of the people I knew there, but I just like to imagine the sites I saw and the people I knew getting around in this place that I love in the various weather scenarios.

The other weather report I like to check is Paris. I've never been there. I've had little desire to go, honestly. Sure, I'd like to see the Eiffel Tower and before my strong drive to avoid carbs, I would have enjoyed an authentic croissant or two. But, after my trip to Greece this past summer, I can't help but look to see what the weather is doing in Paris because now, I know someone there.

My best friend Kathy was working on the movie set of the sequel for The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants on the most gorgeous island of Greece, Santorini. For once having the wisdom to see a once in a lifetime chance when it actually happens, I knew that I needed to take advantage of this doorway into another part of the world and go visit her while she worked there. Sure, it was tempting to spend time some with my best friend on the other side of the world, but basically, I just liked having a free place to stay. So, I paid $1,200 in airfare so I could sleep for free on a couch. It's kind of like buying 12 bars of soap because you know you'll get the 13th bar for free. I mean, who needs all that soap? Regardless, the rationalization applied and I used it.

After five days on Santorini, I realized a couple of things. First, a beautiful island on the southern coast of Greece is a secluded, amazing and relaxing paradise. Second, paradise can be boring.

Kathy was working insane hours on the set and the only time I really saw her was when I'd swing by the filming. She might have a couple of minutes to whisper "how are yous" with me and complain about craft services, but then she would be called to tend to the bangs of an early twenties-something movie star that would see more money before 25 than I would see before death.

I found that although secluded, Santorini had excellent shopping, and not all of it was touristy crap. Or, if it was, it was Greek touristy crap, so very few people I know have it. Even still, after five days of shopping by myself down the same main street of this town, I began to know shop owners names. In one shop, Marie (at least that was what she allowed English-speaking people to call her for short) was very helpful, filling me in on all the gays that lived on the island. They both sounded very nice.

The mundane had set in – even in paradise. I needed a change.

In a very un-Chad-like move, I decided to change my plans and get a ticket for a ferry that would take me to another island off the southern coast of Greece—Mykonos. I had heard and read about this island. In my research, I had a strong and correct impression that there were more than two queers there, so I imagined it would be a welcoming and enjoyable destination for a couple of days in my Big Fat Greek Adventure. I decided to spend two days there and then catch another ferry for two days in Athens. I wanted to stay on the move to see as much of Southern Greece as I could.

When I arrived to Mykonos, I immediately went to my hotel to check in. It's not the first time I've stayed in a hotel by myself, but it is the first time I stayed in a hotel by myself in Greece when only one person in the world knew where I was. When I got to my room, I had to breath deep and syke myself up to get out again. It's rare to be in a completely different place, to not know anyone and to have no one know you. There's infinite freedom in those moments, and for people like me, infinite freedom brings the same fears as the thoughts of jumping out of an airplane or driving in New York.

Initially, I went into the entertainment area, where all the shops and bars were located. I wanted to get a "lay of the land" in the sunlight. The last thing I wanted was to be turned around and lost at night in a literal foreign land. I didn't know the phrase for "Where is my hotel?" in Greek, and I wasn't apt to learn it in the next few hours.

And, the more study I did during the day, the better. The street system of Mykonos (and the rest of the Greek Islands I've been told) is confusing. The pathways between the buildings are narrow and crooked. Each one was made identical with the same stone floor. It is hard to tell one way from another because they all looked the same. I was told that they were designed to be this confusing on purpose. In the days of the pirates, this system of confusing pathways and streets was designed by those that lived on the island to increase their chances of defeating invaders. Considering how confusing it was for me, a thirty year old with his Master's Degree, I'm sure it proved effectively boggling to those middle-aged pirates with no education... and the poor guys with the eye patches didn't have a prayer.

Once I had felt confident of the restaurants I would check out and the bars I would investigate, I returned to my hotel. Being that I was in a foreign land and on an island on which I knew no one, I planned the only one way I could grasp comfort. I booked my stay at a hotel that was known as an "all-gay hotel." When I initially arrived, I quickly asked myself what in the hell I had gotten myself in to. I had never stayed at an all-gay establishment. I was concerned about exactly what was expected of me as a guest. Still, I knew that I needed to find a safe haven, and being that I was going blind into this adventure, that was the best I could come up with. And, aside from having condoms as one of the hotel amenities along with a tiny bottle of shampoo and a shower cap, it was just a regular hotel.

Sitting at the hotel bar on the balcony on my return, I ordered glass of wine to watch the sunset. This was my first opportunity to see the other guests at my hotel. Whatever worries I had vanished. They were harmless. They were eclectic, from all over the world. I heard different languages, different accents, but in them all, I saw the characteristics of people I knew back home. There was the funny, larger, effeminate one. There was the older one that put his plastic surgeon's kids through college. There was the good looking, bitchy one, oblivious to the fact that someday, he too would be funding a doctor's child's education.

And, there was me, too shy to speak to anyone and content drinking his wine and hearing the soundtrack to a romantic comedy in his head. Isolated and almost in love with the romantic notion of being alone in such a beautiful place. Someone like me can find completeness in isolation and meloncholy.

Just then, a tanned young man with striking blue eyes and thick, dark hair walked up to the bar next to me. I tried not to notice because I could tell he was the type to always be noticed. He did not have an arrogant air about him… which is rare since most Europeans do. And, although he had not yet spoken, I knew he had to be European. His dark blue, v-neck sweater with a nautical feel is not what told me he was European; no, the point I was certain he was European was when I saw he wore short white shorts which revealed his toned, strong, tanned legs. As I recall all the details of how he looked in that moment, I realize that the attempts I made not to look at him, not to notice him, failed miserably.

In a heavy French accent, he attempted to communicate with the bartender behind the counter. Try as she did, the bartender, an Australian lesbian with short, spiky blonde hair, could not make out what he was saying. Having already developed a rapport with her when ordering my wine, I attempted to translate. I speak no French but I do speak Lesbianese.

"I think he wants to know if he can get a turkey sandwich even though the kitchen is closed."

"Oh!" said the Australian lesbian in a moment of enlightenment that few ever achieve in their life. "Sure thing, hon," she said to the nautical Frenchman.

"There you go," I said to him.

"Thank you," he said to me. Sure that would be the extent of our conversation, I redirected my focus to the sunset. He continued, "I'm afraid my English is not very good."

"It's a lot better than my French."

"Where are you from? America?"

"Yes… Texas, actually."

"Oh, yes… a cowboy. Like 'Brokeback Mountain.'"

"Yes, exactly," I said, my sarcasm was not quite translating. "Well, not entirely, no. I'm not entirely a cowboy, but I do have boots and I've ridden a horse." He smiled. Dimples so deep that I could bathe in them. "Where in France are you from?" I knew very little geography, especially European geography that specialized in France. If he didn't answer "Paris," then I would have no semi-intelligent response to give.

"Paris."

Thank you, God.

"Paris! Nice. I have never been there."

"Oh, it is beautiful." Have you heard a French man say the word "beautiful?" If not, you must. I think it is why the word was invented.

The Australian lesbian brought out his turkey sandwich with a side of fries. "Here you go. Charge to your room?"

"Oui, merci," he replied. He picked up his plate and crossed to the other side of me, on his way to his table. I thought my good deed had been completed for the day. I helped feed a French man. My work here was done, and I'm sure somewhere in Eternity, I earned some sort of reward. That would have to be enough for me.

"Would you like to sit at my table with me and my boss? He speaks much better English than I do. We could talk more."

A beautiful, young, tanned French man asked me to continue a conversation at his table during the sunset in Mykonos, Greece. In my mind, I went into a musical number from Sweet Charity made popular by Kathy Lee Gifford when she was panhandling cruises—"If my friends could see me now…" There were lights, backup dancers on the bar and a full orchestra. I wanted to take a picture with my phone and send it to all my friends (and enemies). I wanted to go back in time and tell the me that was so worried about being gay that one day, in Greece, a gorgeous French man would ask you to sit at his table; the struggle would not have dragged out so long.

With every ounce of my strength, I stifled all those responses, smiled and calmly replied, "Sure."

to be continued...

20/20

I work with a guy that has two eyes.

Okay, wait, let me clarify. Everyone I work with has two eyes. In fact, everyone I know has two eyes. As I mentally flip through the Rolodex of people in my life, I don't run across a pirate or James Bond nemesis that requires a patch or has a disfiguring facial scar. Thankfully, everyone I know has two perfectly working eyes.

That's not to say that I will only be friends with people with two working eyes. I'd gladly spend time getting to know a one-eyed person-- provided that they aren't a pirate or evil mastermind... I still want to be careful of the company I keep. I don't want to be judged guilty by association for raping and pillaging a village or holding the United States hostage with a missile or something. I can get in plenty of trouble on my own.

To even extend that, I'd be willing to be friends with a blind person for that matter... even though they couldn't read my blog unless it is translated into braille or they had one of those features on their computer that reads things outloud. I pride myself a bit on being open minded to the visually impaired-- or at least trying to be.

But, this one guy at work is challenging my view on the subject.

He started at the office about a month and a half ago. Young (I allow myself to say that because he's close to my age) and handsome, he's the new Chief Information Officer (i.e. King of the Nerd Herd). I work and collaborate with him on a number of projects, so we email and meet relatively frequently. It wasn't until our third or fourth conversation that I noticed something was different about him.

He has two different color eyes.

Now, I've seen this on cats and dogs and other sort of animals, but on a human, it's a bit freaky and unsettling. He might as well have a tail.

At first, I thought he might be blind in one eye. One looked different than the other, so that was my first and immediate conclusion. So, with great effort, I worked to focus on 'the good eye.' By whatever train of thought, I decided the lighter color eye was the 'good' one. I'm sure psychologist from coast to coast would assert this reveals deep prejudices on my part and that by deciding the blue one was 'good' and the brown one was 'bad' that I have racist tendencies and probably have a cross in my trunk dripping with gasoline, ready to burn on the first lawn I see.

Just goes to show that they don't know me at all. I drive a Jeep. I don't have a trunk.*

But, as soon as I decided that I was dealing with a SDJ situation (blind in one eye so I had to concentrate on the working one-- ala Sammy Davis Junior), I could see I was wrong. The brown eye moved just as well as the blue one. I discovered this through a number of tests. If I saw him standing in the hall talking with someone, I would idle up beside him on his brown eyed side and see how long it too him to notice me. His timing was always quick and impressive.

At the start of a meeting in the conference room, I would act very indecisive about which chair I would like to sit in, so I would sit in one briefly and then quickly hop up and select another one for a few seconds until I would switch again... all under the cover of saying their was a draft in one chair or a particularly bad glare in another. No one else in the meeting knew what I was doing or found it particularly odd (at least, not odd for me. I find if you set a standard expectation of peculiarity for yourself in a social or work situation, you are allowed more extreme oddities in your behavior on various occasions like this one). Throughout my personal game of Musical Chairs (without the music), I would check my co-workers eyes to see how they followed me. Both were in sync and right on target. The same proved true when I used a laser pointer through one of my presentations.

That's when I finally asked the receptionist. Having never seen a two-colored eyed person before, it was hard to comprehend. I had to make sure I wasn't seeing things. When she confirmed that I indeed was not crazy (well, on this particular point), I felt much more at ease now that I knew what I was dealing with.

I mean, part of me actually starting feeling sorry for him. While almost anyone in their life can get the compliment, "You have such beautiful (insert color of eyes here) eyes," you find yourself at a loss when trying to share the same sentiment with him. What is there to say? "You have such a beautiful left brown eye." It's just not a compliment that could carry a romantic moment through. Once you're forced to get that specific, it pretty much stops magic dead in its tracks... with the sound effect of screeching brakes and all.

Still, the two-colored eye feature actually can come in handy, both for the person looking in to the eyes and the one looking out of them. Now, when I'm in a meeting with him, when he is joking or being light-hearted, I look into the right blue eye. Whatever he says seems a bit more enjoyable or fun when I'm looking into the brighter eye. However, when the more serious, business portion of the meeting comes into play, I switch and concentrate on the brown eye. The information is more reliable and accurate when I'm looking into the left brown eye. It's clear he's done his research and that he's serious about what he's sharing. Blue eye: fun. Brown eye: business.

His eyes are like a mullet. Business in the front; party in the back. Business in the brown; party in the blue.

Then, I wonder if that helps with his life or his day at work. Does he close his brown eye when he's watching a comedy so he enjoys the jokes more? Does he close his blue eye when he needs to concentrate on a project at work? When he gets on to his kids, does he scold them like Popeye, pinching the blue eye shut so they know he's serious? What does he do during sex? I imagine he looks like he has a nervous twitch or tick.

Maybe that's why pirates typically wear a patch... No one is going to be scared of a pirate with a blue right eye.

If I were him, I'd invest in a matching pair of contacts. That way, people talking to me wouldn't be eye bouncing from left to right-- and by what color contact I'm wearing, they'd know what kind of mood I'm in. Both brown, let's get some work done. Both blue, let's PARTY! I would imagine a contact company would be glad to give him a blue and brown one. They have to have a few extras lying around. He'd probably get a discount. Maybe he could claim it on our insurance. I'll talk to HR on his behalf.



*Because anyone can read this and not everyone knows me (yet), I'm not racist. It was a joke.